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  ‘We don’t work for you.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but this is my theatre. I’m the director here.’

  The sergeant said to his female colleague, ‘He’s the director here. We’re in the right place, then.’

  It sounded like sarcasm. Already under strain, Shearman said with more force than the first time, ‘But you’re not needed.’

  ‘Like London’s Noble Fire Brigade?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Belloc.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  The sergeant chanted, ‘“Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded in showing them they were not needed.”’

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Then permit me to introduce Constable Reed. Reed can write at speed, so Reed is needed. Oh, yes, there is a need for Reed.’

  The young policewoman looked at Shearman and winked, as if asking him to make allowance. To confirm that this was for real, she had opened a notebook and was writing in it.

  ‘And I’m Sergeant Dawkins,’ the ponderous introduction continued, ‘in pursuit of the truth, and as the poet said, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” So I’m needed also. Dawkins and Reed, addressing the need. We’re here about the occurrence last night.’

  Out of all the verbiage one word struck home, and to Shearman’s ear it carried dangerous overtones. ‘Occurrence?’

  Sergeant Dawkins said, ‘In your theatre, on your stage.’ Then he had the cheek to reach into one of the model stage sets on Shearman’s bookcase and touch the figure of an actor, tipping it over, face down.

  Shearman was incensed. He wanted to tell this smart-arse to go to hell, but you don’t say that to a policeman. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I know what you’re talking about and I wouldn’t call it an occurrence.’

  ‘What would you call it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t amount to anything.’

  ‘An incident?’

  ‘Nothing like that. One of the cast was taken ill, that’s all.’

  ‘Occurrence.’ Dawkins made a horizontal gesture with his right hand like a cricket umpire signalling. Then he repeated the movement six inches higher. ‘Incident.’ Then higher again. ‘Offence. Occurrence, incident, offence.’

  ‘It’s not an offence, for God’s sake. Anyway, we’re dealing with it ourselves.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  Blatant insolence. If this man had been on the theatre staff he wouldn’t have lasted a moment longer. ‘It’s the responsible thing to do,’ Shearman said.

  ‘Dealing with it?’

  ‘Of course. That’s my job.’

  ‘And we investigate. That’s our job.’

  ‘But I didn’t send for you.’

  Sergeant Dawkins parted his lips in a grin that revealed sharp canines. ‘If we waited to be invited, we wouldn’t get out at all.’

  Shearman felt as if he’d strayed into a play by Samuel Beckett. ‘So on whose authority are you here?’

  ‘Take your pick.’

  He hesitated, wary of a trap. ‘My pick of what?’

  ‘Avon and Somerset Police. The Home Office. Her gracious Majesty.’

  Either the man was a crank, or he was trying to wind Shearman up for a purpose. ‘Who, precisely, sent you?’

  ‘Are you thinking we came of our own volition? Are you thinking of us as ambulance chasers?’

  Shearman gave up. The whole conversation was surreal.

  ‘Rest assured,’ Dawkins said. ‘We’re not ambulance chasers. We’re at the receiving end.’

  ‘There’s no point in this. I don’t follow what you’re saying.’

  ‘We don’t follow either.’

  ‘Follow what?’

  ‘Ambulances.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who mentioned ambulances.’

  ‘We follow up. Follow up occurrences. Or incidents. Or offences. When an occurrence is deemed to be an offence you really do have something to be concerned about. Any unexplained injury of a serious nature that shows up in A & E gets referred to us and we follow up. Were you present at the occurrence yourself?’

  That word again. Shearman’s mind was made up. He refused to submit to interrogation by these two. They had to be challenged here and now. ‘This has gone far enough. I intend to speak to your senior officer.’

  Dawkins was unmoved. ‘You’ll be wasting your time and ours, sir. There’s a chain of command and it’s cast iron solid, from the Chief Constable all the way down to PC Reed. We’re ordinary coppers doing our job and our superiors back us every interview of the way. So let’s get down to question and answer, shall we? Did you see what happened last night?’

  A straight question, and no mention of an occurrence. Perhaps it signalled a change of approach. Reluctantly, Shearman gave Dawkins the benefit of the doubt. The wise option might be to get this over quickly and send them on their way. ‘I’m always in the audience on first nights.’

  Constable Reed continued making notes, her hand moving at prodigious speed.

  ‘You don’t have to write all this down.’

  ‘You’re a witness,’ she said. ‘You just confirmed it, sir.’

  ‘But nothing of a criminal nature took place.’

  Sergeant Dawkins said as if Shearman had just sprung the trap, ‘Who mentioned crime? Not one of us. A crime is an offence.’

  Constable Reed seemed to be putting every word in her notebook.

  Shearman made a huge effort to be reasonable. ‘Look, everyone here is extremely concerned about what happened and I’m going to carry out a rigorous enquiry.’

  ‘So are we,’ Dawkins said. ‘Rigorous and vigorous. And so are the press by the looks of it. Have you seen all the news-hounds downstairs?’

  ‘That means nothing. It’s a matter of public interest when a celebrity of Miss Calhoun’s stature is unable to go on. Nobody’s broken the law.’

  ‘We don’t know that, do we – or do we?’ the sergeant said, his eyebrows arching. ‘She’s in hospital with burns.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Shearman said. ‘I drove her to A & E myself. In the theatre we’re a family. We look after our own, and, believe me, we’re taking this seriously, but I want to spare Clarion the added distress of a police investigation. Surely you understand that?’

  Constable Reed looked up from her notes. ‘You’re speaking rather fast. Would you mind repeating the bit after “taking this seriously”?’

  Unable to contain his annoyance any longer, Shearman said, ‘There’s nothing worth writing down. All of this is pointless. Please leave by the side door rather than the front, where the press are.’

  ‘Not before we’ve finished,’ Dawkins said. ‘If this ever comes to court, we’ll all be obliged to PC Reed for taking notes.’

  The reminder of the process of law subdued Shearman again. ‘What else do you need to know?’

  ‘When were you first aware that Miss Calhoun was in trouble?’

  ‘That’s self-evident. When she missed her line and started screaming.’

  ‘Did you see her before the show?’

  ‘Personally, no. I was meeting some VIPs. Others who saw her said she was in good spirits.’

  ‘Spirits may have been her undoing.’

  ‘Just what are you hinting at?’

  ‘Spirits of this or spirits of that. You never know what chemicals they use in the cosmetics industry. Did she do her own make-up?’

  ‘No. She’s not experienced in the theatre, so we provided a dresser for her, and that’s who looked after her.’

  ‘The make-up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A dresser dresses,’ Dawkins said. ‘I know about dressers. Constable Reed thinks a dresser is an item of furniture for displaying crockery, but this isn’t my first time in a theatre and I know dressers don’t do make-up.’

  ‘You’d better revise your ideas,’ Shearman said. ‘This dresser was specially asked to assist Clarion.’

  ‘Wit
h her make-up? When was it applied?’

  ‘Some time before curtain up. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Have you spoken to this dresser?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘I expect she has a name.’

  ‘I’d rather not say. I don’t attach blame to anyone.’

  ‘Blame?’ Dawkins picked up on the word as if Shearman had condemned himself. ‘Are we starting to play the blame game?’

  ‘I said I’m not blaming anyone.’

  ‘All the same, we need the name.’

  He told a white lie. ‘It escapes me.’

  Dawkins wasn’t willing to let it pass. ‘You said you were a family. You must know her.’

  This interrogation had become a minefield. ‘Do you have any conception how many are employed in a theatre? Too many to know all the names.’

  ‘How do you address this member of your family?’ Dawkins gave the toothy smile again. ‘We may look like plodding policepersons, but we are not incapable of discovering the identity of the dresser who looked after the female lead.’

  Shearman sighed and gave in. ‘Denise Pearsall.’

  ‘Would you kindly spell that for PC Reed?’

  He did so.

  ‘And is Ms Denise Pearsall available for interview?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘But as the director you can arrange it.’

  ‘Now?’ Shearman reached for the phone. He’d given up the struggle. Passing these two on to Denise would come as a massive relief.

  Dawkins lifted a finger and moved it like a windscreen wiper. ‘Not until we’ve finished with you. Was Clarion Calhoun the popular choice for this play?’

  Reluctantly Shearman removed his hand from the phone. ‘It depends what you mean. Her fans were ecstatic. We sold every ticket in advance.’

  ‘Let us be frank. The lady is not famous for being an actress,’ Dawkins said as if he knew about casting. ‘How did the rest of the cast feel about performing with a pop singer?’

  ‘I’m not aware of any hurt feelings. She’s pre-eminent in her field.’

  ‘As a singer. Does she sing in the play?’

  Shearman gave an impatient sigh. ‘This isn’t Cabaret, for God’s sake, it’s I Am a Camera. Clarion plays a nightclub performer and all she sings are a couple of lines in the third act.’

  ‘She has to do some acting, then?’

  Explaining the basics was wearisome to Shearman. He said with sarcasm these plodding policepersons wouldn’t appreciate, ‘Quite a lot of acting.’

  ‘So you’re telling me no one had any reason to dislike her?’

  This was heading into dangerous territory. ‘What are you suggesting – that she was injured deliberately? That would be outrageous. We’re a theatre. We work as a team to produce a top quality production, the cast, the backstage crew, the front-of-house, the director. We’re too damned busy to go in for petty feuds.’

  ‘So it’s a team? Just now you were calling it a family.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  Dawkins shook his head slowly. ‘Not so, if I may be so bold.’

  This sergeant had the trick of making courtesies sound like insults. Shearman stared back and said nothing.

  ‘There are regulars like yourself and the scene-shifters and Denise the dresser, am I right? I can see how you think of them as family. And then you’ve got the actors who get replaced each time you put on a new play. With respect, they’re not family. They’re a team.’

  ‘If you’re trying to say it’s a case of them and us, you’re wrong. We all have a common interest in the show succeeding.’

  ‘Getting back to my question about whether anyone disliked Miss Clarion Calhoun, did you pick up any untoward vibrations?’

  ‘Vibrations?’

  ‘Bad vibes?’ Constable Reed translated for him.

  They both looked to Shearman for a response.

  ‘No, and I don’t care for this line of questioning. Whatever went wrong last night, it was not deliberate.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Dawkins asked.

  ‘Couldn’t have been.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m in charge and it’s my job to know the people here, call them a family, or a team, or whatever you choose. No one in this theatre would stoop to the sort of mindless attack you seem to be suggesting and I must insist you say not another word about it. If the press get a sniff there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘The press are not slow, Mr Shearman. They’ve sniffed and got the scent and are in full cry.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘They’ll be writing tomorrow’s headlines as we speak.’

  ‘They’ll have it wrong, then.’

  ‘Which is why we need to find out what really happened. I suggest you exit stage left and cue the dresser.’

  The two police officers met Denise Pearsall over coffee in the Egg café, at the far end of the theatre block. The name of the place had nothing to do with the menu. It was taken from the shape of the children’s theatre it adjoined. The café was much used by mothers and toddlers and should have been a relaxing setting, but Denise was too strung out to touch her coffee. Probably in her forties, she was red-haired and pretty, with brown eyes dilated by fear. Or guilt. She stared in horror at PC Reed, waiting with pen poised, and then Dawkins. The first thing she said was, ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘Not to my uncertain knowledge,’ the sergeant said in his stilted style. ‘Have you seen me before? Very likely. I’m easy to spot in my uniform and I’m often around the streets of Bath. Have I seen you before? If I had, you would be known to the police, and you don’t want that. Are you going to tell us about last night?’

  ‘I’ve worked here for six years and never experienced anything so awful as this,’ she said, plucking at her neck, ‘and I can’t blame anyone else. I did Clarion’s make-up myself. Most actors do their own, but she hasn’t worked in the theatre for years, if at all. She was the female lead, she needed help and I was asked to give it.’

  ‘Was she the only one you worked on?’

  She nodded. ‘The others are perfectly capable of doing their own make-up. My responsibilities begin and end with Clarion. I’ll deliver some costumes to other dressing rooms because I work for the wardrobe department, but I was asked to take care of her personally.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Mr Melmot, the chairman. Of course, the director of the play talked to me about the look he wanted for her.’

  ‘Who is the director?’

  ‘Sandy Block-Swell. He wasn’t there last night.’

  ‘The director missing?’

  ‘Not missing. He watched the dress rehearsal and took a plane to America.’

  ‘To escape the critics?’

  ‘No, he said he was well satisfied. He’s a busy man. He has a film to direct in Hollywood.’

  PC Reed looked up from her notebook. ‘Would you say the name again?’

  ‘Block-Swell, with a hyphen between the “k” and the “s”.’

  Dawkins said, ‘A hyphen in one’s name is transforming. I could call myself Sergeant Daw-Kins and it has a certain ring to it. You could be Ms Pear-Sall. Imposing. No such refinement for someone with the name of Reed. You said he talked to you about the look. What is the look?’

  ‘The thirties. For the women, Cupid’s bows, dark eyes and the green fingernails for Sally. The men are clean-shaven and part their hair in the centre. Nothing too difficult. Sandy made the decisions. The leading men, Preston and Mark, as Christopher and Fritz, are very experienced and so is the woman playing Fräulein Schneider. Then there are Clive and Natalia and Mrs Watson, all well capable of looking after themselves.’

  ‘One moment, madam,’ Sergeant Dawkins said.

  She was startled. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘These names are meaningless to Constable Reed and me. We haven’t seen the play.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Denise turned bright red. ‘There are three male roles and
four female. I was explaining why I worked on Sally.’

  ‘Who is this Sally?’

  ‘Sally Bowles, the character played by Clarion.’

  ‘Understood,’ Dawkins said with a force that made Denise jerk back in her chair. ‘Sally is Clarion, or should I say Clarion is Sally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For simplicity…’ He paused, insisting on a response.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘For simplicity, let’s use their real names.’

  As if she was catching this policeman’s pedantry, Denise said, ‘I doubt if her real name is Clarion. She’s a show person, like Madonna.’

  ‘Or Beyoncé,’ PC Reed said to Dawkins, taking the baton and happy to run with it. ‘Duffy, Lady GaGa, Little Boots.’

  ‘Clarion will do,’ Dawkins said. ‘I don’t need to know her real name.’

  PC Reed said, ‘But you just said let’s use – ’

  ‘Enough,’ he stopped her, and turned back to Denise. ‘What did you use for make-up – greasepaint?’

  ‘No, that’s hardly ever used in the modern theatre. It’s too heavy and oily. The basic foundation, moisturiser, cream liners, rouge and blusher, powder and the usual liners for eyes and lips. Professional brands made from the best materials. They shouldn’t produce a reaction, certainly nothing like what happened last night.’

  ‘Shouldn’t, wouldn’t or couldn’t,’ Dawkins said, and he seemed to be talking to himself.

  Denise looked ready to burst into tears. It wouldn’t take much more of this abrasive questioning. In fact she was doing more than her interrogator to bring a semblance of structure to the interview. ‘Well, if an actor suffers from acne it can get inflamed, but Clarion had a healthy complexion.’

  PC Reed looked up from her notes. ‘Some people have sensitive skin.’

  ‘Allergies, yes,’ Denise said, ‘but she’d have known. She’d have told me, wouldn’t she?’ Uncertainty clouded her face and her hand clutched at her throat again. ‘Besides, we had the dress rehearsal on Sunday and she was perfectly all right.’

  ‘Dress rehearsal?’ Dawkins said.

  ‘Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘With all the warpaint on?’

  She looked pained again, but didn’t take issue. ‘That’s what makes this so hard to understand. If there was going to be a reaction it should have happened then.’